


Rigor Mortis

by Cunninglinguist



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: A ton of bodily fluids, Alexandria Safe-Zone, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst and Tragedy, Badass Maggie, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Bodily Fluids, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dark Maggie, Decapitation, F/M, Graphic Description, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Knives, Maggie Whump, Miscarriage, Murder, Negan Kills Glenn Rhee, Negan dies, Negan is the worst, Non-Canonical Character Death, Oral Sex, Rage, Revenge, Revenge Sex, Smut, Stillbirth, Vaginal Sex, Violence, Whump, i can't believe these tags, seriously this is not happy or cute, where do i even begin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist
Summary: Negan takes everything; Maggie bides her time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE BLOODY TAGS, folks. This work was inspired by an anonymous prompt on the Tumbles for Maggie/Negan hate sex and things got out of hand very quickly. 
> 
> I managed to shelve the intense, burning love I have for JDM and Negan to explore a darker facet of this complicated, flawed, and beloved character in relation to the answering potential for darkness I see in Maggie Greene (another fave). This was surprisingly cathartic for me to write. I hope you all enjoy it--maybe more people will identify with Maggie after tomorrow night's season 7 premiere, who knows.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead nor any of its incredible characters, much to my chagrin. This is unbeta'd and all mistakes are my own.

Maggie Greene had always been proud to count patience among her enduring virtues. Her daddy, may he rest in whatever kind of peace was offered in his afterlife, had instilled it in her, much like he’d instilled the importance of kindness and compassion. The parables of Christianity, the tenets of human decency. 

Many events since the fall of man had shaken Maggie to the core. Meeting Negan was the straw that broke the camel’s back. At first, it had been hard for her to stay patient, to remember her virtues. She had been sick—nearly dead—with a fever wrought by the imminent death of the life inside of her. If that hadn’t been enough, she had watched as this power-crazed psychopath had beaten the love of her life to naught more than a slick, pulpy mess of viscera with a barbed wire wrapped baseball bat. 

The sickly, damp pallor of her face had been splattered with Glenn’s blood. Her people had been screaming around her, crying, scrambling to make sense of the grievous bedlam that surrounded them. That fucker, that Negan, had been laughing—just chuckling his ass off, deriving joy from their sorrow as Maggie stared blankly at the gory mess before her. Though she was nearly mad with fever and heartache, a wrath that she had never known settled in her veins, in her bones, as tears poured from her eyes and the sounds of Glenn’s screams rang in her mind interminably. 

The ensuing physical pain and spiritual anguish of miscarrying an infected fetus, of giving birth to that which was already dead, paled in comparison. It was nearly unbearable, but by the time Maggie had borne the mangled corpse—the remnants of her Glenn, of her hope—she had been completely overtaken by a quiet, suffocating numbness. 

Negan had deigned to allow Maggie and her family to return to Alexandria, so long as they abided by his wrought iron terms and conditions, which he enforced with pain and psychological trauma. He came to collect every two weeks, like sadistic, sharp-tongued clockwork. When Maggie thought of him and his visits, of his loathsome face twisted in victory as he raided the fruits of their labor and suffering, she dug her nails into her palms to feel something other than the icy darkness of unadulterated hatred that paralyzed the blood in her veins. 

Come to think of it, the only time that Maggie felt anything these days was when she thought about Negan. It was oddly passionate, a twisted sort of lust for blood that surged through her whenever she pictured his face, his tall frame swaggering despicably through the home they made for themselves at the edge of the world, spewing taunting vitriol at Rick and lecherous suggestions at Michonne, at Tara, and at herself. 

Maggie wasn’t an idiot: she knew that Negan got off on vaunting their subjugation by reminding them of all that he had taken, and all that he had left to take. Maggie was a special target—he loved to remind her, in front of everyone, that she was single now, free to do as she pleased. These comments were inevitably followed by some obscene gesture, maybe a lewd wriggle of his tongue between two long, leather-clad fingers, and booming laughter.

She’d thought she’d known hatred before, and she had—she’d hated the Governor, her father’s executioner, the man who had toppled their prison settlement and set them fleeing into darkness. She’d hated the wretched people in that hospital facility who had taken her sweet, beautiful Beth long before her time. Perhaps it was the karmic justice that they had ultimately faced, their well-deserved demises that had placated her. When she thought of those people now, she felt only grief for her lost loved ones, rather than an insatiable thirst for vengeance. Though it was but a small consolation, their deaths were a soothing balm on the open sore of her heart.

Negan, however, was a completely different beast. Not only was he still alive, but he was _thriving_ —all at the expense of herself and her family. He was bending them to his will like marionettes: Rick averted his eyes around him, still shaken to the core, unwilling to disturb the precarious balance between them before the time was right. Maggie knew that his rage boiled just below the surface, too. She knew he understood. 

The third time Negan called on Alexandria was when his advances towards Maggie intensified. White teeth glinting in the sunlight, he’d stepped into her space, uncaring that she tensed up, stiffening visibly. He’d brushed her hair behind her ear—hair that she hadn’t cut since _it_ happened—and propositioned her. 

“Shame for a pretty little thing like you to be all the fuck alone in this big, bad world,” he murmured as he stroked her face with the backs of his fingers. Every molecule of her flesh burned in the wake of his touch, seared by nearly crippling, white-hot rage. “I could take such good care of you, darlin’.”

Though her blood boiled and her heart ached in her chest, she was never afraid to look at him. That didn’t change just because he was standing mere inches from her, his tongue wetting his lips, his breath hot on her flesh, exuding supremacy in the way only a man who believed himself invincible could do.

Fighting back bile, Maggie had glared at him. He smiled, leaned closely, close enough that his beard scratched her earlobe, sending nauseating pulses of electricity up her spine, and whispered, “Maybe next time.”

That’s when Maggie knew what she had to do.

“The Saviors are ruled by fear,” Rick had said that night. They never knew who would be desperate enough to turn on them, so they could never be too careful concerning the manner in which they met. That night it had been Maggie, Rick, Daryl, and Michonne, huddled together, stone-faced by the gate in the dead of night. “And now, so are we. I don’t like it anymore than you,” he continued, looking pointedly at each of them, his eyes lingering on Maggie. “But we gotta bide our time, gotta come up with a lasting way to dismantle him. Knock him down hard enough that he stays down. Cut the head off, so to speak.” 

“I can do you one better,” thought Maggie, crossing thin arms over her chest and cocking an eyebrow. 

“I can get close to him,” she said, ignoring the disgust that threatened to burn the heart out of her chest at the very thought. “Very close to him.”

Daryl made a face and shifted his weight. “There’s gotta be another way.”

“You see how he looks at me,” Maggie shot back, scowling. “You saw what he said today. He’s just a man with needs, not some god. He wants me…he wants to stick his flag in conquered lands.” 

Rick leaned in, wide-eyed and deadly serious. “Are you sure about this, Maggie?”

She was nodding before the words were out of his lips. “Yes.” She furrowed her brow, remembering a time when tears would have pricked her eyes at the thought of losing Glenn. Those times were behind her, at least for the time being—right now, she only loved her revenge. The only loss she would suffer would be failure to follow through on this plan. She would be unable to properly grieve, unable to rest if she didn’t do this—if she didn’t remove her family from tyranny by dismantling the oppression, beat-by-beat, starting at the top. 

Daryl, Michonne, and Rick exchanged a glance. Daryl and Michonne nodded, and Rick exhaled audibly and ran a hand through greasy curls. “Okay, then. Let’s talk about this.”

 ***

Maggie waited until the tail end of Negan’s last visit to approach him. Maggie showered that morning, spreading scented, skin-softening lotion over every inch of her flesh, even dabbing perfume behind her ears. She’d brushed her now shoulder-length auburn hair until it was shiny and smooth, knot-free for one of the first times since the world went to shit. She slid into a white tank top, no bra. 

She’d found Negan in the pantry, swinging that loathsome baseball bat at his side as he scrutinized their meager supplies, flanked by two distracted lackeys who argued by his side. He wouldn’t leave without exactly half—“his” share. He was so engrossed in his task that he didn’t sense her approaching him until she was right behind him, a lioness in tall grass. 

“Hey there,” she purred, biting back a laugh as he startled, nearly jumping in the air, his fingers tightening on his beloved weapon. His boys yelled and turned their guns on her. She stuck her hands up, smiling in mock surrender.

“Jesus tap dancing’ Christ,” he said breathlessly, grinning as he gestured at them to lower their weapons. “You scared the everloving fuck outta me, darlin’. Almost, ah…” He gestured emphatically with the bat and waggled his eyebrows. Maggie willed herself not to projectile vomit all over his face. It was a shame, she thought—he would have been handsome, and maybe he had been in another life. A life in which he wasn’t the devil incarnate. 

“Sorry,” she said, dipping her head shyly before looking up at him through long lashes. He inhaled sharply. She knew the effect that her eyes had on men—and Negan was no exception, she reminded herself. Not the devil incarnate. Not some invincible, omniscient creature. He was just a man.

He smiled cockily, deepening his dimples, and rested his elbow on of the shelves, ever the predator. “Oh, it’s no problem,” he said, his eyes raking over her body, devouring her. She suppressed the urge to shudder as her skin crawled. “You’re awfully fuckin’ friendly today.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said last time,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear before leaning in, chest-first, giving him full view down her shirt—a view that he took, and liberally, at that. She bit her lip to mask a smirk. “It’s been a long time.”

His dark eyes lit up with something that wasn’t playful enough to be classified as mischief. “Guess it has been for you, especially after what happened to your man.”

She nearly faltered at that, anger surging, threatening to bubble over, then she inhaled deeply and thought of Rick, of Daryl, of Sasha, of Michonne, of everyone. Of Glenn. Her baby. The life she should have had. The life they still could have.

She could do this. She had to do this for her family. There were worse things. Hell, she had lived them. 

“So, what, are _you_ gonna be the one to step up? Huh?” she asked, chewing on her lip and forcing herself to run a hand up the surprisingly soft sleeve of his leather jacket. 

“Darlin’,” he said, wrapping a strong arm around her waist and pulling their bodies flush. “What the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to fucking tell you? I’d take the fuckin’ best care of you, you have no idea.”

His lips brushed hers, and she closed her eyes. Were this anyone else, it would have been nice—warm, yielding lips against hers, the closeness and intimacy of sharing space with someone else, with someone who wanted her. 

“So give me an idea,” she murmured against his lips. He kissed her, hands roaming all over her body as she gripped at his shoulders, ablaze with the success of his willingness. She was acutely aware of the presence of his men, who had fallen back enough to both give them some space and to stand guard at the entrance to the pantry. 

Negan bent her over a low shelf, his longing palpable as he pulled her jeans to her knees. She let herself cry out when he roughly pushed her thighs apart and licked at her, parting her pussy lips with his tongue and licking her open, and fuck—he was good at it. He was rough when he was inside of her, yanking her hair back and gripping her hips tight enough to bruise, the force of his thrusts shaking the table so much that cans of fruit fell to the floor with a clatter.

In spite of the hatred and disgust that pervaded her being to the core, Maggie allowed him to bring her to orgasm, the passion of her anger converting into a dark, sexual energy so potent it nearly gave her pause. Her knuckles turned white and a tear trickled down her cheek as her knees knocked inward. Her inner walls squeezed around the ruthless cock inside of her and she gushed, slicking up his length with her powerful orgasm. 

When he came, he was courteous enough to pull out, spilling hot and copious on her lower back. Using the patience that she had spent her whole life cultivating, she bit back her visceral reaction long enough to allow him to kiss her goodbye, slapping her bare ass before leaving her, clothing completely askew, flesh bared, covered in bruises and the filth of his release. 

He’d planted his flag, just like she knew he would, leaving her debased and conquered. Nothing more than another victory, another cunt vanquished in his unending pursuit for dominance over all things. 

When she had finished emptying her stomach behind the pantry, Maggie ran home--the place that she had once shared with Glenn. She ripped off her clothes and stood in the shower, frantically scrubbing the cum from her flesh until she was raw and red. 

She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror for what seemed like hours, long enough for the steam to dissipate and the water from her shower to pool at her feet. The lust of rage simmered within her as she picked up the cuticle scissors on the edge of the sink.

“Next time,” she hissed at the feral, vengeance-crazed woman in the mirror, pressing the blunted edges of the scissors into the palm of her hand until hot blood pricked her flesh and dripped onto the tile floor. 

*** 

The next time that Negan showed up at the gates of the Alexandria Safe Zone, which didn’t feel very safe anymore, Maggie was ready again. Even more ready than she had been the last time.

It was a damp, grey day: the kind of day that preceded a storm. The kind of day that would never be seen as auspicious by most people. A light mist lingered from the early morning, and the air was thick and weighty with humidity. 

By that time, she had had plenty of time to think about what she was going to do. In fact, she spent nearly every waking hour thinking about it. She worried, of course, that something would go awry. It could be any number of things: what if he wouldn’t stray far enough from his mouth-breathing bodyguards? What if she didn’t distract him, or he was too fast and somehow managed to stop her? 

She closed her eyes and pictured Glenn. His eyes, his smile, the way his nose twitched right before he sneezed, the sound of his laugh…

The way she felt like she was the richest, luckiest woman on earth when she looked into his eyes. The way he had been there for her, like an anchor, when everything else was destroyed, ground into fine dust that slipped through her fingers and blew away in the breeze. The way she felt like maybe there was a chance at overcoming this, at coming out on the other side, not just surviving—but living—every time they were together. 

But now he was gone. Because of Negan, every day was scored by the constant ache of emptiness in her chest. A throbbing, jagged hole ripped through her heart, allowing plentiful wisps of her soul to escape through it. 

Fuck Negan. Fuck the Saviors and their false prophet. Fuck the new world order that they so desperately wanted to sustain, and fuck the blood that had been spilled in its creation. 

Thought it was a fear-driven behemoth, nothing in this world was impenetrable or insurmountable. Toppling this regime would not be pleasant work, but Maggie was looking forward to it. It was time for Negan to reap what he had so gleefully sown. 

Maggie sat on her porch, heart pounding as she watched him traverse the ASZ, wielding that infernal baseball bat, sometimes even pausing to talk to it like it was sentient. Like it was a person. Finding herself wondering what had happened in his life that would make him this way, she grimaced. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but ending him, slowly and painfully. 

His eyes were glued to Maggie from the moment he arrived. He flayed her alive with his gaze, his tongue wetting his lips. A lesser woman at the epicenter of his primal intentions might have withered, but Maggie thrived in it. She waved coyly at him, and he grinned. Just beyond the scope of Negan’s periphery, Daryl and Rick exchanged a glance before nodding at her. 

Maggie narrowed her eyes and looked away. Thrumming with an excited anticipation that she wished were more anxiety-related, she breathed deeply. Inhale. Exhale. She didn’t want to risk her chances. Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched Negan speak with Rick, their respective people standing tensely at their sides.

“Hey,” she said when he finally swaggered over to her, the goddamn baseball bat’s barbed edges resting against his leather-covered shoulder. Of course, his two favorite flunkies lagged slightly behind, watching out of the corners of their beady eyes. She saw him exchange words with them intensely before they nodded and hung back, remaining in the periphery, watching as Negan traipsed through the grass. 

“Well, well, well,” he said, leaning on the wooden banister and leering at her. “Aren’t you a fucking sight for sore eyes?”

She stood up to meet his gaze. “Back for more?”

“You know it,” he murmured. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and gestured towards the house. “This your spot?”

Arching one brow, she nodded before pressing her chest to his. He regarded her inquisitively, eyes brimming with questions and lust as she grabbed his hips and pulled his pelvis flush to hers, eliciting a small noise of surprise. Blood rushed between her thighs. Every ounce of her energy was focused on him—on taking him apart piece by piece. 

She brushed her lips against his ear. “Come inside.” 

“Darlin’, I’m there,” he replied lowly, the baritone of his voice sending shivers up her spine. The vampire had accepted his invitation; little did he know that Maggie had a wooden stake.

She gave him her most winning smile, a grin that split her face naturally as she thought of what she was about to do. She felt hot, like there was fire in her blood, like she was on the brink of transcendence. She grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door before leading him to the couch and pushing him down onto the cushions. He let her. 

Maggie watched hungrily as Negan eagerly tore down his own walls, brick by brick, of his own volition. His eyes never left her face as he unwound his crimson scarf with long fingers to reveal the delicate expanse of his neck. Smirking, she peeled off her sweat-damp tank top and threw it at him. He eagerly pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply when he caught it. 

“Mmm,” he hummed approvingly, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it aside. He beckoned to her salaciously. “Get over here.”

Saliva flooded Maggie’s mouth at the sight of his vulnerable flesh, such a thin barrier between comfort and suffering, between life and death. She didn’t even have to do anything, she thought as she shimmed out of her pants and kicked them aside. He was just a man, succumbing to his most base desires. Like all men driven to foolhardiness by lust, he was engineering his own destruction—all for the promise of perceived dominance over a woman. 

“I knew I’d fucking make you mine,” he purred as she straddled his lap. She groaned at the feeling of his hardness against the thin fabric of her panties. 

“You know, just because I fuck you doesn’t mean I’m yours,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his stubble, enjoying the burn in its wake. She reached between them to push her panties out of the way, rubbing her wet pussy against the head of his cock. At least the man was hung, that’s one thing he had going for him.

He barked out a surprised laugh that quickly turned into a groan at her ministrations. “Is that fuckin’ right?” he said, gripping her hips tightly and pressing himself against her soft opening. 

She buried her free hand in his hair, pulling his head back to look at his horrible, smug face as her arousal dripped down his cock. 

“Last time I checked,” he continued, fingertips grazing her thighs, up her sides, to grope at her chest. He roughly yanked her bra down, exposing her lush, bouncing breasts. “Everything in this whole fucking community, in every fucking community, including you, belongs to yours fucking truly.”

Maggie groaned and pulled his hair as he sucked a stiff, aching nipple into his mouth, nibbling and licking at sensitive flesh. She nearly screamed when his fingers dipped low to rub at her clit. Fuck, it felt incredible, and she hadn’t even gotten to the best part. 

“Is that fuckin’ right?” she parroted mockingly, grinding down on the tip of his cock until it pressed just inside of her, stretching her exquisitely. His lips parted at the sensation. She clutched at his face and looked into his eyes. “Sounds like you oughtta check again, ‘cause I don’t belong to anyone.”

He grinned salaciously, a challenge in his eyes. The soft, thin cotton of his tee shirt rubbed against her flesh as he arched his back and slid deeper into her. The fucker. She lowered herself down, meeting his gaze with answering challenge as she sat down on his cock. Her eyelids fluttered as she swiveled her hips, stimulating herself in all the most delicious places. “Especially not to you. I fucking hate you.”

“That’s it, darlin’, ride my cock and fucking tell me that you hate me,” he growled against her lips.

“I fucking hate you,” she whispered, arching her back and groaning as electricity danced up her spine. She couldn’t deny that there was something incredibly sweet about that fuck; maybe that it was to be his last. She undulated her hips and shoved his face into her breasts, pulling on his hair with one hand while the other so very slowly wormed its way into the couch cushions, carefully seeking its hidden bounty. Her gut tightened with decadent heat when her fingertip grazed the razor-sharp, business end of her prize just as he bit her nipple. She gasped, ignoring the pinprick of blood that blossomed on her flesh as she wrapped fingers around the handle. 

“I fuckin’ hate you so bad,” she groaned, lifting his tee shirt to rub their sweat-slicked chests together as she slowly pulled the knife from its confines.

“Is this what you do when you fucking—ah, fucking hell, that’s it—when you fucking hate someone?” His voice was coming out in breathy gasps, and his hands were tangled desperately in her long hair, fingernails scratching burning marks down her back. He pressed his forehead to hers when she sped up the pace of her hips. 

“It’s what I do when I fucking hate you,” she replied, painstakingly pulling the Bowie knife out and holding it above him, just out of his line of sight. “And I do. I fucking hate you.”

“Guess there’s no line between hate and love for you,” he murmured, nipping at her collarbone. She shivered with her rapidly building orgasm. Her blade was poised, her hand shockingly steady. 

He discourteously ripped her bra apart with one lustful pull, tearing it from her body completely and burying his face between her breasts. He licked a hot stripe up her chest to her neck and bit down. “And you best watch your fucking tone, little girl,” he warned, pulling her down onto his cock harshly. “Don’t think I won’t introduce you to Lucille just because I’m fucking you. Or because I already fucking fucked up your man. That’s not how it fucking works around here.”

 

That was it. Those words from his lips were the shove off the precipice that Maggie needed. Roughly tipping his chin up and back to graze his lips with hers, she brought the knife down, the force of it penetrating the supple flesh of his neck. His eyes widened comically with astonishment, flashing with betrayal as spasms wracked his body. 

Maggie grit her teeth and clenched around his thick cock as she felt him release inside of her, the unexpected rush of heat pushing her closer to her orgasm. She tightened her grip on his jaw, savoring the choked, gurgling gasps that escaped his throat. 

“I know this is a tough pill to swallow,” she spat, watching the light in his eyes begin to fade. She moaned as he twitched inside of her; was he getting _harder_ ? “But swallow it you most certainly fucking will.”

Holding his gaze, she dragged the knife through the flesh and muscle of his neck, jaggedly slicing him ear to ear. Hot, copious spurts of blood burst forth from his wound, splattering her face, hair, and body as he seized up, heels digging into the floor, cock impossibly rigid inside of Maggie as she threw her head back and cried out the agony of her pleasure, the ecstasy of her retribution. 

His blood was metallic and thick in her mouth as she came down, breathing hard, gazing at his face, his dull eyes, relishing in the sound of his final, wet breath. Just a man, just another dead man.

Once her heart rate had slowed, she pulled the knife out, a fresh torrent of blood pouring into her lap in its wake. Suddenly overcome with regret (not for what she had done, but for not having drawn it out enough), she let out a mournful shriek as she plunged the knife back in, yanking his head back by the hair and sawing at the uneven wound. She didn’t stop, not when his bones splintered and yielded, not when fresh blood poured out, dripping through what had already begun to congeal on the front of his tee shirt. 

When she was done, her chest was heaving again. She pushed against his shoulders to haul herself off of his erection, still engorged by the trauma of his demise. Instead of weighted down by the familiar numbness or wrath that she had known so well for the past two months, Maggie was alight with triumph: her blood sang, her spirit radiated. Her patience and resilience had transformed her. She was the subtle knife, the slow knife: the perfectly timed strike. 

She had unmasked the false hydra: he didn’t have seven heads, just one—and once that head was removed, it did not fucking regenerate. Overcome by the magnitude of what she had done, of the darkness within herself that she had embraced to conquer her demon, her knees buckled before she collected herself. Vaguely, she was aware of fresh wetness on her face, streaking through all that coagulated on her cheeks.

She stepped onto the porch, naked as the day she was born, covered in Negan’s blood while his cum dribbled down her leg. Conventions of time seemed to subvert in this strange space, the few minutes in which Maggie was the only one who knew that the entire world as she knew it had been irreversibly altered. An eternity seemed to pass before anyone noticed her stalking towards Negan’s men, clutching her knife in one hand, Negan’s severed head in the other as a fiery, foreign serenity overtook her. 

“Hey,” she barked hoarsely, waiting until she held Daryl’s, Rick’s, and most importantly, the Saviors’ attention. The most thorough and heavenly satisfaction she had ever experienced emanated from her fingertips at the sight of their wide, stunned eyes and parted lips. She licked the cooling, tacky blood from her lips and threw Negan’s head to his friends, who screamed and jumped back. “This is the last thing you and your people are ever gonna take from Alexandria again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, you made it. I had some reservations about posting this for various reasons, so if you liked it in any capacity, please feel free to let me know. Kudos and comments are my life's blood.
> 
> Though I listened to a ton of different music while I wrote this (including a lot of TWD score/soundtrack), I threw this fabulous KMFDM [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0PDy_MKYo4A) on repeat to channel sexy murder vibes. Check it out--it's the most Maggie revenge song ever, fight me.
> 
> Come cry about Negan and TWD with me on [Tumblr](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/)!


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